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The life of Mr. Edgar Lancer changed incontrovertibly, undeniably, without a shadow of a doubt the first time a ghost attacks Casper High.
He did not expect the second time his life took a sharp turn. Though he should have. In retrospect, the foreshadowing laid itself out obviously like a poorly written mystery novel. What a fool he was.
The fact of the matter, after years of teaching, Mr. Lancer knew children. As much as they thought he didn’t understand, he very much did. Their memes, their slang, their worries, their challenges as young adults trying to figure it out. Though his students did not believe it, he’d been young… once. The challenges were different then and yet somehow still the same.
Some things never changed.
What sort of teacher, mentor, would he be if he wasn’t able to meet these children where they were? Frankly, after spending eight hours per day with them, Mr. Lancer would have to be deliberately obtuse to not understand the inside jokes, the parroted memes, the TikTok dances in the hallways.
Some things changed, of course.
He never had to worry about a ghost interrupting his Algebra exam, or a ghost attack while hanging out at the mall with his friends. But, as Mr. Lancer watched over the children with a warmth in his heart, these children were resilient. Too strong, too much asked of them in their short lives.
“Orderly now,” he called over the heads of his class. Herding them was skin to wrangling cats, feral cats adverse to well-meaning concern at that. “Kwan, stop trying to trip Wes.”
The student in question smiled sheepishly but stopped kicking at his classmate’s ankles. Great Expectations, Mr. Lancer wasn’t paid enough for this. Did they get hazard pay? They should get hazard pay – he made a mental note to ask about it at the next teacher’s union meeting.
Hazard pay, who was he kidding? Like the administration had any additional funding for hazard pay, not when the gym had been rebuilt four times over in the last year, and brand new Fenton Ghost Shields installed at the beginning of the semester. Frankly, Mr. Lancer suspected he was lucky to be getting a paycheck at all at this point.
He was in it for the love of the job and all it entailed. But the satisfaction of teaching teenagers the joy of classical literature did not put dinner on the table.
Children first, then staff. Mr. Lancer would be last behind the ghost shield – he always was. So many lives, all he gladly took responsibility for as vice-principal. He pushed aside anxiety and fear, they would not serve him here. As his students filtered into the auditorium for shelter in place protocols, he counted heads.
And came up short.
One short, to be exact. He stared hard at Tucker Foley and Samantha Manson, a conspicuous missing third to their little band of musketeers. Mr. Lancer knew, from experience, neither child would speak truthfully to him, always too eager to cover for Daniel Fenton. Ruthlessly loyal, a trait he appreciated in most circumstances. Certainly not in the middle of a ghost attack.
No time to waste, Mr. Lance activated the shield, pawned his class off to Ms. Tetslaff and turned on his heel to find the wayward lamb. Detention, he thought, remedial lessons on proper evacuation processes. Surely, Jazz, smart girl she was, would be amenable to assisting with disciplining her brother. She had such a positive influence on the boy.
‘Eerie’ had long since stopped bothering Mr. Lancer. ‘Eerie’ didn’t mean anything anymore, a vague notion of atmosphere that fell flat in the face of a reality that included ghosts and spirits. Though the empty hallways of Casper High did not fail in putting Mr. Lancer on edge. He did not bother to sneak or check corners. Why would he? Useless, when the threat could appear from thin air and through solid objects. Instead, he made his way with a swiftness and worry for his student urging him forward.
The sound of a fight gave him pause. A shout, a large crash, groans of pain. Mr. Lancer pressed himself against the lockers, making himself as small of a target as possible.
Well. If he could not locate Danny, then he would track the fight. At least then, Mr. Lancer could confirm the resolution, making sure no one would lay victim to the chaos insured to ensue. So he lingered, pressed against the lockers, head tilted just enough to peer around the corner.
The ghosts raged at each, the fight brutal. Though he knew them to be dead, Edgar could not help but wince at the heavy blows landing on seemingly solid bodies, the sound of flesh impacting. It seemed they were intent on reducing each other to meat. Phantom held the line, his form small against the larger ghost.
As all battles must, it came to an end. A clever retort, a final blow and act of trickery. And finally, with a beam of light from that absurd Fenton invention, the adversary finally subdued. Mr. Lancer felt a proper Homer, observing the events of a great epic he may someday recount.
At least now, Edgar knew his student - even the one unaccounted for - was safe. Just as the relief flooded through his chest, his limbs, Phantom landed and promptly crumpled to the floor. Edgar did not spare a thought, he darted to the ghost.
Though as he neared, he hesitated. What could he do? What aid could he administer? And he thought hard about the depth and scope of these mysteries while the ghost shuddered. He watched uselessly, hands lifted but not reaching, as the ghost straightened onto his back to reveal a large wound.
Mr. Edgar Lancer was not an expert on ghosts, nor their biology - no, he’d leave that to the proclamations of the Doctors Fenton – but he knew enough of human biology. Knew enough to understand the depth of the wound, the white of bone shining through sludgy green ectoplasm that flowed thickly from the wound. In his hesitation, a pool formed beneath the ghost and spread outward.
It was the closest he had ever been to the ghost. The first time he had been able to truly observe Phantom, even his face screwed up in the agony of pain. Of course, Phantom always kept his distance – a swoop, a fight, an immediate retreat – usually under heavy fire from ghost hunters in a disregard of Phantom’s efforts to protect the living.
How could he forget? How could he become so jaded and blind?
So easy to forget, in the otherly way the ghost appeared. White hair, acid green eyes, glowing and seemingly weightless. How could Edgar have let himself forget where ghosts came from, the humanity of the origin, forgotten beneath an other-wordly appearance?
This close, he could not deny what his eyes and brain observed. Phantom was a child.
Death happens to us all. The ugly thought rose in his mind, unbidden and unwelcome. Mr. Lancer swallowed past the lump in his throat. In another life, was Phantom a student of Casper High? Did he walk these walls during his life, with hopes and dreams?
A life cut short, a light snuffed out too soon. But, here he was. Protecting them, narrow shoulders accepting a heavy burden. Mr. Lancer couldn’t help himself from wondering what happened, what killed the child, what brought him back.
It seemed useless to wonder. What did it matter? Mr. Lancer couldn’t change the past, he couldn’t right the wrongs. The ink was already dried, written in some else’s hand.
Mr. Lancer could not abide his inaction any longer. Another second of hesitation felt impossible. He pressed hands to the deep wound on the ghost’s side, as if applying pressure would staunch the heavy flow of ectoplasm. Phantom groaned, squirmed feebly in an attempt to escape the undoubtedly painful touch.
“I’m sorry.” Mr. Lancer felt his lips move, not realizing he spoke until he heard his own voice. “I know it hurts, I’m sorry, let me help.”
Phantom eyed him warily. Dante’s Inferno, he was so young. “It’s going to be ok,” Mr. Lancer promised, despite knowing it was a promise he should not make, did not know if he could keep. “You’re going to be alright, I’m here to help.”
Unbelievably, the chest under his hands rose and then fell, stuttering through a deep breath. Phantom’s eyebrows tilted, his mouth crushing into a frown. All at once, his face crumpled into something forlorn and lost and confused and Mr. Edgar Lancer ached for this young man.
To die so young. Had he been alone? Had it been painful? Unkindly, his mind provided the thoughts, the wonderings. He dared no look away, taking witness to Phantom’s pain.
I see you, Mr. Lancer wanted to say, as he had said to so many students as they found their way, discovered themselves.
He summoned other words, perhaps more helpful but not as needed. “Let’s get you bandaged up.” And thankfully, they were close to the overly stocked nurse’s station. Though Mr. Lancer hated the need for extreme preparedness, he was glad for it then. “I’m not a medical professional, but I have a suspicion you won’t want to wait for the nurse to return.”
Phantom huffed a small laugh, forcing it around through a sniffle. “Yeah, no.”
Up close, his voice was ethereal, echoing and bouncing around in Mr. Lancer’s skull. He’d heard the ghost talk before, the quips and snarky retorts thrown alongside fists and ectoblasts. But never this near. Phantom didn’t just look young, he sounded young.
The persistent melancholy thoughts served Mr. Lancer little. Carefully, he set aside and applied that same care as he dressed the ghost’s wounds. Phantom bit off groans and whines of pain, his jaw practically creaking with the effort he took to clench his jaw. But he was an exemplary patient, and soon Mr. Lancer was finished with his task.
The white bandages looked inadequate, already seeping through with green. Phantom laid a shaking hand on his side, just below the wound and breathed shakily.
Awkward, Mr. Lancer sat back on his heels. For once in his life, he didn’t know what to say, could find no monologue or quote to span the gap. Simply, Mr. Lancer watched the ghost, worry tilting his own eyebrows in a mimic of Phantom’s pained mask.
“Thank you,” he blurted. It bubbled up from a mysterious place. Phantom’s eyes snapped open. For a long moment – heavy and bloated – they stared at each other. Mr. Lancer needed to expand on the gratitude. “For always protecting us.”
There was more to say, so much more. But Mr. Lancer valued the simplicity of words, the weight brevity could hold sometimes. He could say you don’t have to and yet you do and we appreciate your sacrifice. In fact, there lay a whole hoard of words in his mind that Mr. Lancer could offer and hope they encompassed the expanse of his gratitude for the young ghost in front of him.
But what could he say? The words would never be adequate, never be enough. Mr. Lancer grappled with himself, the truth of it. The truth that his life and the lives of many had been saved and saved and saved countless times by a ghost that appeared no older than his own students.
A tragedy he could no longer deny. A child died and could not rest. And instead was called to fight, protecting something he could no longer have.
No. Here, this moment, less was more.
Phantom, it seemed, heard all the unspoken. His mouth lifted into a small and tired half smile. “Don’t mention it.”
Between one blink and the next, Phantom disappeared. All that remained was ectoplasm on Mr. Lancer’s hands and the tiles.
The ghost gone, Mr. Lancer heaved himself to stand on aching knees. Long passed were his cheerleading days, his body making its age – and displeasure – known. He simply wasn’t meant for crouching, especially for long periods of time. But, Mr. Lancer couldn’t care about that just then and set himself upon the auditorium to end the lockdown.
Just outside the double set of doors, he caught a glimpse of Daniel Fenton slipping around the corner. Not a heartbeat later, Tucker Foley and Samantha Manson slipped from the doors and into the hallway. Mr. Lancer’s eyebrows rose, impressed and alarmed how soundlessly they managed it. Their sneaking was for naught, as they turned and spotted him.
“Going somewhere?” he asked, spurring himself into movement again. Tucker straightened under his gaze, trying to appear innocent as if not caught red headed. At his side, Samantha barely resisted rolling her eyes and slouched.
“Uh,” Tucker slanted a glance at Sam. He widened his eyes, imploring her. “We were just going to grab Danny!”
“Right! Danny’s, like, super scared of ghosts. He was hiding in the bathroom and had a panic attack,” Sam caught on and backed up her friend. “So, we’re, just. We’re going to go help him.”
Mr. Lancer sighed, personally aggrieved. Of course, the trio were practically attached at the sides and unable to exist without the pod for longer than a class period. The excuse was woefully thin and unsurprising. He looked them over, searching for signs of distress. And beyond seeing the obvious want to skive off, to get to their friend, he found nothing worrying. “Alright, then,” he conceded. “Classes will be cancelled for the remainder of the day. Go straight home.”
The children peered at him suspiciously. “Classes are never cancelled after a ghost attack.”
Of course, they weren’t. Otherwise there would never be classes, the students’ learning endlessly interrupted. But… Mr. Lancer could not bring himself to force students to sit and learn about adverbs just then. Not with the images of Phantom – bleeding and wounded, young face screwed up in pain and fear – still so fresh in his mind.
“Go, before I change my mind,” he warned. Tucker took the implicit permission and skittered off, already jogging down the hall and turning the corner Daniel had. Though, Sam stayed and glared at him.
Her eyes dropped to his hands. She went still, unbreathing, as she took in the ectoplasm nearly up to his elbows and staining his dress shirt. And how strange, she reacted as if it were blood and carnage, not the essence of a ghost.
“Is that…?” Her voice faded out on the question, suddenly small. It betrayed her age in a heinous way, like Phantom’s had.
“Phantom’s,” he confirmed. And smiled sadly. “Injured protecting us again. I believe he’ll be alright. I treated his wounds.”
Unbidden, a small “oh” dropped from her lips. Her eyes shone and she took a half step back, glancing over her shoulder in the direction Tucker had disappeared. Then, without another word, she took off in a flat sprint.
“Go straight home!” he shouted at her back. “All of you!”
••☆••
The next morning started as usual. A bell, a homeroom, and tardy students slouching through the door. Mr. Lancer watched them, unimpressed and an eyebrow raised. Last to come was Daniel Fenton. He looked pale and drawn, as if the ghost attack the afternoon prior had taken a lot out of him.
“Good morning, Mr. Fenton,” he greeted. And to his surprise, the boy smiled. The corner of his mouth lifted, lopsided. Mr. Lancer blinked, confronted with the memory of a similar smile from just the day before but on the face of a ghost boy.
“Mornin’,” Daniel chirped. But then he paused, note yet taking his place in his usual seat at the very back of the room. “I, uh. I wanted to say thank you.”
Mr. Lancer knew not what for. Before he could ask, Daniel ducked his head and slid off to his seat.
Mind spinning, Mr. Lancer watched him, watched as Tucker perked up and grinned at his friend, Sam slanting a sly smile at them both. Their heads leaned together, speaking in low voices that were lost in the din of the room. Daniel nodded, glancing up at Mr. Lancer. Though, he did not hurriedly look away as most students did under a teacher’s keen attention. Instead, his smile widened again for a moment.
Then he looked away, the fluorescent lights catching his eyes. For the span of less than a heartbeat, Daniel’s eyes shone green.
The same green as Phantom’s.